


The Path That Leads Astray

by raewise



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Politics, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raewise/pseuds/raewise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Merrina Mahariel, in three parts, from three perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honesty

You had never been an honest woman, least of all to yourself. You’d thought, for awhile, that she could  _ make  _ you honest. Like some sort of miracle. Mahariel had a way of intimidating people into telling the truth, with her eyes that were the colour of burnt coal, hard and razor-sharp. You’d never felt intimidated by her harsh nature, however. You watched every other member of her small team bow their heads in submission, but you saw pain behind her steeled eyes. Loss. You couldn’t bow to someone so similar to yourself.

She spoke to you differently as well, her tone softened so it wasn’t as humourless and acute. She would reach out and grasp your hand when she saw you were sad. You found yourself telling her things you didn’t want to relive. She took you to see Marjolaine, and gripped your hand tightly as your old flame insulted everything you’d learned to love, and threatened you. Afterwards, she told you she’d wanted to kill her, and that she hadn’t because you’d made her stronger.

You remember the way her lips tasted that night, how her callused hands crept up your neck and held your face gently. She hardly ever did anything gently.

She reasoned with you that the Maker had done nothing but hurt you, and that you needed to stop lying to yourself. You loved battle, and there was nothing wrong with that. You felt exuberated, like new breath had passed through your lips. 

She didn’t take you with her when she went to kill the archdemon. You saw something in her eyes when she forced you and Alistair to stay behind. He tried to protest, but she simply shook her head and made him lead your team into battle. She hardly said a word to you, but held your palm to hers like she’d done many times before. You wanted to kiss her once more, remember how she tasted, but even as she walked away you could hardly remember. “I love you, lethallan. Live well,” she had said to you. You couldn’t form a reply around the frog in your throat.

You’d felt this before, with Marjolaine. This was betrayal, and mourning what was now gone. You were suddenly sure you’d lost her.

It turned out she did teach you to tell the truth. When Zevran walked back to you, looking exhausted and covered from head to toe with blood, you knew. He reached out and gripped your shoulder, his eyes sad, and you felt yourself release a sob that felt like daggers stabbing at your esophagus. She wasn’t coming back, he said. She’d fallen in battle after slaying the archdemon, he said. 

You admitted this to yourself after hobbling away, your legs numb and hands not exactly sure where to place themselves. You wanted to be holding her, feel her cool brown skin against you. 

Your Merrina was dead, and the Maker wouldn’t help her. You were left alone and bitter, facing the cold world alone once again.  _ That _ was the truth.


	2. A Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Tamlen’s vallaslin was Elgar’nan-based by comparing it to the Inquisition patterns, so if there’s canonical evidence that it isn’t, please tell me.
> 
>  
> 
> [Merrina's vallaslin](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Blood_Writing#Design_3)

Lethallin,

 

I miss you. Sometimes when I’m in a battle, I can’t help but think every enemy is a step closer to my being reunited with you. I remember grubby, muddy hands against my own, a smile pressed to my collar and your ears (they were always a bit big) tickling at my shoulder as we hid from some beast as we were learning to hunt. We had our vallaslin painted the same day--yours to honour Elgar’nan, mine Falon’din. Your grin was so wide that day, and your lips tasted like fruit.

Your eyes when I first lost you were the same as they had always been. Maybe that was what made it so horrible. They were blue, excited. Earlier that morning when we woke up-- we had the same breaths, same heartbeats--you pressed your hand to my bicep and leaned over me so our hips were aligned and feet tangled together. You pressed your fingers against my inner wrist, kissed along my veins.

You told me, “You are beautiful, ma vhenan.” Your hair was the colour of dust floating through sunlight. I smiled and kissed you until Ashalle came for us, told you to hunt. I went with you. Always.

Most times my grief feels like emptiness, feels like the second when you release the arrow, watch as it plunges into your target’s flesh. The solemn hesitance a hunt deserves. Other times, my grief is burning and alive, like a ragged cut or loving you. I don’t regret loving you. You were ma elgara, after all. No one got closer to the sun than you.

Leliana helps to heal the wounds losing you left me. I wondered for a long time if it was selfish of me to find love in another so soon after you left me. Her hands are soft in a way yours never were, her lips full and hair bright like fire. She is vibrant in a different way from you. She speaks softly, where you were sometimes brash and cheerful. Her eyes are a cool silver, where yours were vibrant blue, like the open sky on sunny days. You hold the bow the same way, though. Maybe that's why I first loved her.

When I lost you for the second time, it was my fault. Already I felt guilt for letting you touch that damned mirror; I was always the sensible one, the responsible one, the leader. I let you down, watched your blood pool on the grass beneath your body. An arrow was lodged in your throat. It had only taken one shot to kill you. You didn’t fight back. I didn’t cry, but I prayed the Guide was leading you to the Beyond, and you could finally rest.

I feel like it is destiny that we will meet again, and I will leave this life with the Dread Wolf chasing at my heels. He has been chasing me all my life. I am friend of the dead, a decision I made long ago. Perhaps I do not want to only be a friend, but to know the Beyond like I once knew every curve of your body. I have been given an opportunity, a chance for a heroic death I don't believe I deserve. I will not tell Leliana my plan--she has loved me so openly and I love her just as well. But I will say goodbye. That is my one biggest regret, that the words always got stuck on my tongue, ma vhenan. Dareth shiral. Ir abelas. I will see you in the Beyond.

 

Yours always, 

Merrina 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Ma vhenan: My heart  
> Ma elgara: My sun  
> Dareth shiral: Safe journey/Farewell  
> Ir abelas: I am sorry


	3. The Warden-Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after Awakening. Leliana has taken the position of Left Hand, Anders is about to flee to Kirkwall with Justice, and the Sabrae Clan is already on their way to the Free Marches.

“Ser, there’s a woman at the gate requesting your audience.”

Ser Michel Caron looked up from his paperwork to the private, who looked a bit flustered and out of breath. 

“Can she not speak to Seneschal Garevel?” he asked, blowing on the ink to dry it.

“No, ser. She refuses to speak to anyone but the arl personally. It’s… Ser, she’s a companion of the Hero of Ferelden. I believe it’s important.”

Michel stood. His shoulders ached from being hunched over his desk for so long, and his hand was cramping. 

He knew little of the Hero of Ferelden. She had been mentioned in passing by the king when they met, and he’d heard stories of the vicious Dalish from Oghren. Most times he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or disappointed that such a seemingly bloodthirsty elf was being heralded as a national hero. 

“Alright. I’ll meet with her in the throne room.”

“Yes, ser.”

She left obediently, armour clanking as she walked. He stared after her for a moment, wondering if he should clean the dried black ink from his hands. Michel decided he wanted to get the meeting over and done with as soon as possible. He was planning on going scouting with Nathaniel later, and perhaps sparring with Justice and Sigrun if time permitted. 

He passed Anders and Nathaniel in the corridor, noting that they seemed a bit on edge. 

“She carries a Grey Warden bow, but wears the Chantry’s sigil around her neck,” Anders muttered, obviously anxious. Ever since the Mother had been slain templars had been pounding at Vigil’s Keep’s doors, demanding the apostates. At this point any mention of the Chantry or Circle had Anders on edge. Even Velanna seemed nervous about the situation.

“Don't worry, Anders. I won't let anything happen to you,” Michel commented as he strolled past. 

“No, no, I'm not worried about me. The private said she was with the Hero of Ferelden. As in, the Warden’s lover. Amaranthine was gifted to her--the Hero, that is--technically. I’m wondering if this woman has come to kick us out.”

Michel paused, thinking it over. Technically speaking, Anders was correct. But only if the two women had been married in a proper Andrastian ceremony. “I doubt she has the ability to do that, my friend.”

Anders huffed. “You say that now, but I’m not healing your arse when she throws you out on it.”

“You can listen in if that puts your nerves at ease,” Michel offered, nodding towards Nathaniel as well.

“Fine. Let’s get a move on then.”

The trio made their way to the throne room, opening it to see a good deal of the court present. Sigrun and Velanna were staring openly at the hooded woman who waited by the throne. When Michel’s arrival was announced by Garevel, the nobles and Wardens bowed, and the mysterious woman curtsied. It reminded Michel of his brief time as a chevalier in the Orlesian court. 

“Warden-Commander Ser Michel Caron of Val Royeaux, Arl of Amaranthine.” Garevel shifted uncomfortably. He did his duties well, but it was clear he preferred the much less social job of captain, versus being seneschal. 

Michel stood in front of the throne, not sitting down before bowing to his audience. The Fereldan court was much less flowery than the Orlesian. Fereldans were not the type for pretty words and gestures. They let their actions speak for them, something Michel admired, as he believed in the same principle.

“His court welcomes Sister Leliana, the Left Hand of the Divine. Commence the audience.”

Michel blinked at the woman before him, studying her. She was slender, cloaked in shadows. She wore a hood over her face, only a petite mouth and chin visible. Around her neck hung the Chantry’s sun, just as Anders had said, and strapped to her back an elegant Grey Warden bow. She raised her hands slowly, every movement carefully measured, and pulled back her hood. Her hair was vibrant red, eyes pale. 

“A delight, Ser,” she said. She curtsied again.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Sister?” Michel finally sat down, crossing his legs. “Has the Divine need of something?”

“No, Ser. I’ve come not as a servant of the Chantry, but as a friend to the Grey Wardens. My Merrina--Warden Mahariel, I mean. She was the warden who struck down the archdemon and perished in battle. I’ve come here before I make for the Grand Cathedral, to tie up loose ends.”

“What sort?”

Leliana’s nose was pointed to the floor, sharp as an arrow. If Michel weren’t so weary of Orlesian Andrastians, he might have supposed she looked bashful. As her position stood, Michel supposed she could simply be doing her part in the Grand Game.

“A favour. Warden Mahariel was a proud Dalish, and unfortunately her remains were… cremated, as is traditional for Andrastians. I regret to say I don’t well know how the Dalish treat their dead, but I can’t bring her ashes with me to Orlais, and I was unable to find her previous clan.” She glanced up at him, and he looked deeper into her well-calculated words. Grief flavoured her breathy voice, buried under many layers of propriety. Michel’s heart ached for the girl, as untrustworthy as she may be. “The Grey Wardens were her second family, Ser. I think… it’s only right she would be handed over to her family proper.”

Suddenly, Velanna interrupted. “Do you have her remains with you now?”

Leliana nodded, reaching into her satchel and pulling out a small, plain urn. 

Velanna reach out. “May I?” At Leliana’s nod she took the urn, examining it. “We bury our dead, then plant a tree on top of their remains. There are ceremonies--I can perform a proper funeral, if you would allow it. I was my clan’s First. I know the traditions.”

The Left Hand smiled gratefully at her. “That would… that’s more than I could ask for.”

Velanna gave her an uncharacteristically soft smile. “I would be happy to do it for such a revered Elvhen. I was unaware she was as devout as you’re implying.”

“She was very clear in her dislike of humans and Andraste. Well, not Andraste herself, but her teachings.” Leliana’s eyes sparkled with pride, then remembrance. “Oh! Another thing.” She dug in her satchel once more, pulling out a frayed piece of paper. “This was a letter she wrote, the night before she passed. The last thing she ever wrote. I thought perhaps you’d like to have it, to catalogue who she was--as a person, not a figurehead. It’s another thing I would have liked to give to her clan.”

Michel couldn’t help but smile at her. The woman’s intentions seemed well-placed, motivated by love. “We would be glad to have it.”

Leliana paused as he stepped forwards to take it. She looked down at the writing, smiled, then handed it to the Warden-Commander. Gently, she placed her hand on top of his. “Thank you, Ser. For listening to me. I had hoped you’d understand.” She said this in Orlesian, voice quiet.

“Will you stay for the funeral ceremony?” Velanna asked. She looked chipper, probably excited to revisit her old ways from before she was banished. 

Leliana hesitated, her silvery eyes wandering the throne room. “If the Warden-Commander permits.”

“I do.”

Velanna rushed off to make preparations, mumbling about what kind of tree would be appropriate, when she would be able to get an oak staff… Michel waited for the assembly to be adjourned, then, as the people began to reluctantly divide, quietly made for his study. He had paperwork to finish, and a letter to catalogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Leave a comment if you liked, or if you disliked, or if you just wanna talk medieval court sessions.


End file.
